


The Devil's Luck

by Tyranno



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Crack, Deals With The Devil, Gen, Not As Bad As It Sounds™, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 06:19:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5364647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy Nelson was dead at twenty and for a couple of reasons, didn't stay that way for very long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Luck

**Author's Note:**

> Referance to Bee and Puppycat for those who can find it :)
> 
> This is actually, surprisingly, the first fanfiction I've ever written that is mildly canon-compliant.

It was a car that did it.

He'd just started college, his whole life stretched in front of him like a long, winding, uphill road. He still felt that lingering, light-headed relief at passing the entrance exam, and was on the last day of celebration before he'd have to move into the dorms and get his real life stared.

It was in the middle of town, some four-star wanker swerved onto the pavement, hit him like a freight train.

He supposed he should count himself lucky; in the history of deaths it was one of the cleaner ones, and quick too, a flash of a second registering like a chest full of lighting and then—

And then...

* * *

 

Foggy didn't really want to open his eyes.

It wasn't like the movies—he _knew_ he was dead. Bitten the dust, the big one. Assumed room temperature. That was, as they say, _it_. There'd be no wriggling his way out of this one.

It didn't mean he wouldn't try.

The thick, muggy smell of sulphur that filled his nose only encouraged him. Foggy stood like that, eyes screwed shut, for who knows how long. Long enough. A bit too long, if he was honest.

Foggy, at a loss for other options, opened his eyes.

White filled his vision. It was like stepping into a Victorian landscape painting. A smooth, pristine lake ruffled gently only an inch from his toes, the dark, almost black waters turned to catch white along the ripples. A swan bobbed along the other side of the lake, dipping in and out of dark green reeds. A fog coated the sky, a thick pale grey.

The smell of sulphur was masked by the chill autumn air. Foggy took a step back, glancing around.

A man sat motionless on a bench a little further down the riverside, watching the swan silently.

Foggy stared at him, but he didn't move. _Is that God?_ Foggy found himself thinking. He'd always expected God to look more like a celebrated actor, but this guy looked more like some average man. Shortish, slightly balding, wrinkles as deep as scars, thick unfashionable glasses. Foggy took a few steps towards him. The man didn't look up.

Finally, a little bored of hanging around, Foggy took a few long strides and sat down deliberately next to him.

"Franklin," The man said softly. His voice was slightly breathy and laboured.

"It's actua—no, yeah, I'm Franklin," Foggy tried.

The man watched the swan curve a path along the dark waters.

"Are you God?" Foggy asked, as quietly as he could.

"No," The man said, "I'm not God. Close, though. The other side of the coin."

"Oh _shit_ ," Foggy's eyes snapped to the swan.

"My sentiments exactly," The man murmured. The swan's beak lifted into the cool air, and it turned suddenly, gliding back into the reeds. The man's eyes did not move from them.

"So, uh," Foggy scrubbed his face with his hands. "So—uh. So, what happens now?"

"It's really up to you," The man said, voice brushing inaudible, "I can make you live again, though, for a price."

Foggy grumbled, face heating. "This is going to be really shitty, huh? What is it? You want me to commit to a life of crime or something? Kill a certain amount of people a year? Convert to satanism?!"

The man waited in silence, and eventually Foggy settled back down, falling into the same stillness, if uneasily. "No," The man said, "I want your protection."

"My… protection?" Foggy raised an eyebrow. Alarm bells were ringing, but he was talking to the prince of lies himself, so that was understandable.

"Yes…" The man shifted for the first time, laying a hand over the bench's arm rest, "One of my children's children have a mission to follow. Sometime, though, they may die, and only with your help can they survive."

"Are they evil? Are they destined to carry out, like, terrible acts?" Foggy asked frantically.

The man huffed something like laughter, "No, no," he smiled, "You think I want more of you down here? I have plenty already."

"What do you mean… you don't want…?" Foggy raised an eyebrow.

"I said what I mean. What I mean is, I enjoy playing this game. People, places, things, I enjoy it while they are alive. This..." His eyes stay on the reeds, but his gaze looses focus, floats upwards a little, "... _this_ is my punishment."

Foggy bit his lip, "Are you sure you're not trying to trick me?"

"Does a father not look after his grandchildren?" He smiled a little wryly.

"Yeah, but I mean… you're the father of sin and all..."

But it's too late. There's not enough worry in the world to stop Foggy Nelson remembering—remembering himself and his family, his friends, his hopes, his dreams, everything pushed up against his eyes like brilliant fireworks—and he feels a little shameful, how much he wants to agree.

"A-alright..." Foggy murmured, "Alright, alright. Fine. B-but if this is some cryptic shit, I will scream _so loud_."

The man smiled, and glanced over.

Their eyes met.

* * *

 

A seventy-year-old Foggy Nelson, Father, Grandfather, author, placed 2nd in 2050's Nicest Man Of the Half-Century award (missing out by only 40 votes to Steve Rogers), successful lawyer, and over-all friend-to-the-muthafricking-end opened his eyes to the same riverside.

A swan bobbed along the other side, bone-white and perfectly sculptured.

"Franklin Nelson?" A man stood beside the bench—the same bench, the bench he remembered.

Foggy smiled.

"I'm grateful," the man whispered, softer than Foggy remembered, "For what you did for my daughter."

Foggy stopped smiling, " _Daughter?_ "

The man raised an eyebrow, "Yes. Karen Page is my grandchild."

" _Karen_?" Foggy yelped, "But—but Karen is so nice! And Matt, Matt is so, so—… _questionable_."

The man tilted his head, "Who is Matt?"

Foggy yelped.


End file.
